


Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice

by puella_nerdii



Series: Self-Evident [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Colonialism, Gen, Historical, Jealousy, Kid Fic, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-22
Updated: 2010-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:05:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puella_nerdii/pseuds/puella_nerdii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a trip to Paris, France lets slip that America isn't England's favorite or most important colony. America takes the news poorly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Light that Shines Behind Your Eyes](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1207) by miaoujones. 



> Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/hetaliaremix/profile)[**hetaliaremix**](http://community.livejournal.com/hetaliaremix/), for [](http://miaoujones.livejournal.com/profile)[**miaoujones**](http://miaoujones.livejournal.com/)'s fic [The Light that Shines Behind Your Eyes](http://miaoujones.livejournal.com/6433.html). (You don't need to read the original to understand this, but I'd encourage you to give it a look, because it's lovely.)

  
**Paris, France - July 1729**

The sitting-room in the apartment the three of them are staying in is pretty, all done up in cream and blue and swirling intricate embroidery much nicer than anything in most of America's houses, and even the china that Canada and America's breakfast is being served on has delicate blue patterns painted on, tapering fronds and curling petals. It's refined and it's _cultured_ and it makes a lump rise in America's throat when he thinks of the rough homespun breeches and shirt in his trunk upstairs, the ones he pricked his finger stitching together. America kicks his feet a few times under the table, the way England's always telling him not to, but England's out on business this morning, tending to his trading affairs. And _those_ haven't got anything to do with America. _Sugar, sugar, and more sugar_, France told America yesterday, laughing, and sugar is the West Indies and not America at all, and sugar is what England wants most now. _More than gold, more than jewels, more than that piss he calls wine._

If sugar's what he cares about, fine. America rests his head in his arms and glares at the pastries stacked on the table. There's sugar all over those, too, and it almost sparkles in the sunlight filtering through the wide windows. It makes America's stomach lurch.

"America," Canada says, and if he really wants to tell America something he should speak up and not let his voice quaver so much, "are you sure you don't want to try—"

"'M not hungry," he says, barely lifts his face from his forearms.

"_Papa_'s cooks made it, not England's."

"Not hungry."

"America," Canada begins, and why does he have to sound so _nice_ about it and so quiet, like his lip's quivering, like _he's_ sad because America's sad, like he's got anything to be sad about. Well, America'll show him.

"I'm not hungry!" he shouts, pushes Canada away and Canada totters and falls and one of his flailing elbows knocks the edge of the table and sends all the silverware clattering to the floor and spills the stupid sugar, the stupid _stupid_ sugar—

America gives the table another shove and sends the rest of it scattering. Let's see how England likes his stupid sugar now, when it's coating the eggs and sticking to the tablecloth. America should gather it all up and dump it in the Seine, that'd show him.

Canada doesn't cry, just stares at America with big round eyes. He picks up the fallen spoons and teacups and sets them back on the table because _he_ never makes any messes, and says quietly, "_Papa_ didn't really mean it."

"I don't care what your _papa_ says. He's a Papist and he smells funny."

"Everyone smells that way in Europe—"

"How do you know?" America shouts. He hears England's voice in the back of his head, _America, guests mustn't raise their voices in other people's houses_, but England's not even home, he can't hear him, it doesn't matter. "How much of Europe have you gotten to see?"

The teacup trembles as Canada sets it down.

"You and your stupid fur, you can't even wear fur in the summer! And it's hot and it's itchy and—and cotton's _much_ nicer and it doesn't pick up bad smells and trap them and—" The kind America grows is much nicer than India's, too; it's strong cotton, working cotton, and even if it's not all lightweight and pretty it doesn't tear or fray and doesn't England always tell him he'll take something practical and homely over some frivolous fancy any day?

Not that England thinks America's homely. He doesn't think America's homely, does he?

"Um, I—America, I, ah, don't usually get to come here either," Canada says, but he's probably just trying to make America calm down and America doesn't feel like calming down. He stamps his foot hard enough to make the glass shiver and jump.

"And I have tobacco, too, England smokes it all the time when he comes over and he takes my best leaves home and he says that everyone—he says the demand's rising in all his cities and it's so nice to sit down with a pipe after a long day…"

There. He can't get tobacco anywhere else, can he? That's special. That's America's. He bites his lip to stop it from shaking, but that makes his lip sting and leaves a funny sour taste in his throat, one he wants to spit out. _For god's sake, America, don't spit on the floor_, he hears England say again, and so America does it just to spite him. So there.

So there.

Wordlessly, Canada takes America's hand and leads him away from the table, up the stairs to the room they're sharing. Stupid Canada. If Canada shoved _him_ to the floor, America wouldn't be so nice. America would step on his foot.

America bets the West Indies never step on anyone's feet, or spit on the floor, or dump sugar into the Seine.

He squeezes Canada's hand tighter, as tight as his throat's getting.

Once the door is closed and America's wedged a chair under the handle, Canada says, "He does like your tobacco, America."

"Not as much as he likes sugar," America mutters, flops onto the bed and crosses his arms and curls up. "'S not fair."

Canada's patting and stroking his back like he's a dog or something and America's about to snarl but it comes out as a low shaky whine instead. "It's not fair," he repeats. "I give him everything…"

"I know."

"No you don't, you've got France." He rolls over so he can glare at Canada better, but Canada's still staring at him with those wide round knowing eyes and America's trying to stay mad, Canada could at least help by looking less like a puppy America just kicked. "You've got both of them paying attention to you."

"Sort of," Canada mumbles; America almost misses it at first. "But if you wanted, France would pay attention to you, too," he says, his voice back to normal.

America makes a face, and Canada laughs softly.

"_Papa_'s really nice, once you get to know him."

"England says I'm not allowed to get to know France under any circumstances." America says the last part in England's voice, scrunches up his eyebrows and shifts his voice more into his nose. It gets Canada to smile again. "Maybe I should, though. I mean, if England doesn't—"

And suddenly it's too hard to breathe, forget about speaking.

Canada hugs America tight around the middle, which should make breathing even harder but ends up easing it instead.

"I hate sugar," America says. "I'm never eating sugar again."

"Not even with your tea?"

"Not even with my tea." He sticks his face back in his pillow.

"But it's really bitter…"

"Well, maybe I won't take tea anymore." And maybe America won't give England any more tobacco, either, and if he likes stupid India's cotton so much he can use hers instead and he'll have to patch the elbows of his shirts all the time because they'll wear through and America won't care, not at all.

Someone knocks on the door.

"Go 'way."

"America?"

"It's England," Canada whispers.

"I _know_ it's England, Canada, I'm not stupid."

"America," England says, just his name, just like that, "are you quite all right?"

"I'm fine!" America shouts. His pillow soaks up most of the sound. "Go away."

The doorknob rattles, but England can't get it open, and ha, maybe he _does_ need America for something. "You don't sound all right. Come, let's discuss this over tea."

Stupid tea. America squeezes his eyes shut. "Don't wanna. You're not the boss of me."

"America, I _am_ the boss of you."

"Still don't wanna."

Canada claps his hand over his mouth, like he's trying not to smile, and America fixes him with the most awful glare he can muster. Canada's head droops—and America doesn't care, not one bit, serves him right—but he still calls, "It's all right. He gets like this now and then."

America throws his pillow at Canada, who doesn't dodge quite in time. "Shut up!"

"America, don't abuse your brother."

"I'm not," America says, and adds, "Go away" again, but the words stick in the back of his throat and now England's going to scold him and Canada's head is still drooping so America scooches up on his knees and hugs him. Canada cradles him back, and America's not going to blubber on Canada's shoulder like a baby, but he can rest his head there for a little, wait for his chest to stop hitching.

"Confound it, America, open this door."

Canada whispers, "Is that okay?"

"Fine," America says, his lips barely moving.

Canada pries the chair out from under the handle and clears it away, and England doesn't bang the door open (he always tells America not to do that) but pushes it inch-by-inch, so more and more of him peeks through until America can see him all.

"Well," England says. "What's all this about?"

_He's_ not raising his voice or shaking the furniture. America looks at his feet. "Nothing."

"I see," England says, and even though America's not looking he can picture England's eyebrows raising until they brush his hairline.

The bed creaks as Canada sits himself back on it, clasps America's hand again. America chews his lip and squeezes back and waits until the words come bursting out of him: "You don't like me."

He looks up in time to see the little smile slide off England's face. "What in the King's name—"

"You don't," America says, his chest knotting until it feels ready to collapse. "So go away."

Canada keeps quiet, but his thumb pushes into the base of America's wrist, strokes his pulse in little circles.

"America," England says, "what on Earth is this about?"

He shakes his head wordlessly, his breath unsteadying, but Canada's there to scoot closer, hold him tighter. England's perched on the edge of the bed now, his fingers splayed over the mattress, but their tips are a few inches away from America's knee and he's not moving them any closer, just letting them rest on the coverlet. A cotton coverlet, not a silk one, America realizes. Maybe France _does_ like him.

Finally, America says, "Sugar."

"Sugar?" England's brow knots.

"I know you like the West Indies best," he says, and he's been bursting to say it for so long that it all comes rushing out. "Because of the sugar. And the sugar's the most important—the most important crop, and I don't have any, so I'm—I'm not as important—" His throat burns. "And you always say you like coming to the New World but you never say where and I thought—I thought you wanted to spend time with _me_—"

"I do want to spend time with you." England's smile is back, but wavering. "Haven't I taken you and your brother to Paris?"

"But you don't want me most," America says, his cheeks turning red. "I'm not your favorite. West Indies is your favorite. Not me."

It's one of those really long really awful silences, the kind that stretches out the space between you and someone else until it feels like you're talking to them across a chasm. Canada's still close, though, his arm pressed to America's and their hands linked, and even if he's not saying anything either America's okay with that, as long as he doesn't move away. And he doesn't. Neither does England, even if his fingers curl up on the coverlet. America's heart doesn't plummet, but lowers itself into his stomach bit by bit by bit.

"How did you arrive at that?"

So it _is_ true. America squinches his entire body tight because he's not going to cry. He's not.

"Someone told me," he says. His voice sounds even smaller than Canada's usually does.

"Someone," England says, and the way he says it makes it sound less like a question and more like a statement. He narrows his eyes, presses his lips together. "Yes, well. _Someone_ should keep his bloody French nose in his bloody French business."

"He didn't mean to," Canada pipes up, but then mutters, "Sorry."

"_Someone_—" England smiles, but it's flat. "Someone told you I didn't like you, and you took him at his word?"

A flush crawls up the back of America's neck. "He said I wasn't your favorite…"

England closes his eyes, sighing, but he still hasn't said _yes_ or _no_. "America, come here. Canada, if you'll permit?"

Canada nods and shifts over, scrunches America and England closer together. America's not on England's lap, quite, but England's arm is around his shoulders, his thumb tracing the same kind of circles Canada's is, and America already told himself he wasn't going to cry and he keeps those kinds of promises, he does.

"I'm not your favorite," he says, wishes he could shout it but his throat won't do what he wants it to. "Am I?"

"No," England says at last.

America's about to shove him away and off and out, but England holds him closer. "America, if you'll listen—"

"Don't want to, don't want to, I don't _care_ I hate you—" He swings his knee up and it sinks into England's side and England's groaning a lot louder than America thought he would but fine, let him hurt. Canada's trying to hold on to America and hold him back but no matter how much he squeezes and tugs at America's hand, America's not going to listen, he won't.

"That—was not what I meant," England gasps, clutches his side and winces.

"You said I wasn't your favorite!"

"America, I don't have a favorite colony!"

America glares. "You're just saying that so you don't have to pick."

England grimaces. "I'm saying that because I don't have a favorite."

"The West Indies make you the most money," America shouts. Canada's asking him not to be so loud, but Canada can leave if he doesn't like it. "And that's the important part for colonies, right? We make you money."

If he could spit on the floor again, he would, but his mouth's too dry.

"Yes, that's one purpose a colony serves, but far from the only—America, _please_—"

"I hate you," America shouts over him, "I hate you and I'm going to go live with France—"

"Yes, well, that's just what he's after, isn't it—America!"

England's grabbed him around the upper arm, and that shout was loud enough to shake the windowpanes. Even Canada's blinking, dazed. There's something almost wild about the way England looks now, the strands of hair floating free around his face, the white rims around his nostrils, the bared edges of his teeth. Is this what England's enemies see when they fight him?

"America, I have many colonies," England says, nodding to Canada, too. "I don't keep them all for the same reasons."

"We have different crops," America says. "I know that." Everyone must think he's really stupid today.

England shakes his head. "Not only the crops. No, you don't provide me with the money the West Indies do, I'll admit that. But—" He holds up his hand just as America's about to start shouting again. "You—and your brother—offer me things the West Indies can't."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"Homesteads, for one," England says, and smiles. "My home's only so large, you realize. There's only so much land for my people to work. But they can come to you and get much more, and they needn't be wealthy to claim it."

"So?" America says, but can't keep the quavering note of hope out of his voice.

England ruffles America's hair. "So you can give them the kinds of homes I can't. That's not insignificant. You give my people _lives_, America, and the opportunity to build them as they see fit."

"And they can't get that anywhere else?" he asks.

"They could, perhaps. But the climate's not half so agreeable in those other places, the crops not half so familiar. You see?" England kisses America on the forehead. "You _are_ special."

Canada's fingers lace together with America's.

"And I do enjoy spending time with you," England continues, then frowns. "Though if this is how our Paris visits are to turn out, perhaps I ought to rethink trips to the Continent—"

"_Please_, England," America and Canada say at the same time.

England laughs. "Well, all right. Provided no more wars break out, and that's never a certain thing with this lot."

"We won't make you start wars," America says, and elbows Canada a little so he'll chime in with agreement.

"No more than you have before," England says, voice dry. "Don't tell me you've forgotten the last one."

Oh. America gets a funny feeling in his stomach. He mouths _Sorry about Port Royal_ to Canada, but he remembers peeking out through the slats in his forts and ogling the war parties riding hard on their raids, and how Nicholson let America squire him into his armor before Port Royal fell for good, and England and France _were_ fighting over him then, weren't they? So England must have cared if he sent his troops to help America defend himself, at least a little. He smiles, which might not help the part about saying sorry to Canada, but Canada mouths _It's okay_ back to him even Canada's smile strains a little at the corners, so America guesses it's all right.

And besides, after Port Royal and all the rest Canada came to live with them part of the time, and he has to like that part, right?

England's still waiting for an answer, so America says, "I haven't."

"I didn't think so. You conducted yourself well in that."

America beams.

"As did you, Canada." England kisses him on the forehead, too. "Though I am glad we have you now, at least in part."

"Thank you, England," Canada says.

England nods, turns to America. "I value you," he says. "I value you a great deal." He coughs twice at the end of that, like the words were more than he meant to say. "Now why don't you and your brother dress for the day? There's a good deal of this city you've yet to see, infernal breeding-ground of vice that it is."

"_I_ don't have any infernal breeding-grounds of vice," America says proudly, despite what some of his preachers say about Boston sometimes.

"What's a breeding-ground?" Canada asks.

England's face turns a funny shade of puce. "Yes. Well. You needn't go looking for one after this visit."

"I won't," America promises, and Canada says, "I won't, either."

"Dear boys," England says, embracing them both. "Always my dear boys."

The sweetness of that is even better than sugar.

\---  
\--

**Author's Note:**

> As previously mentioned, this fic is a remix of [The Light that Shines Behind Your Eyes](http://miaoujones.livejournal.com/6433.html) \-- I kept the basic plot structure and some of the dialogue but set the fic two hundred years earlier, which uh, also necessitated a change in the rating.
> 
> The West Indies _was_ England's most important colony at the time of this fic, thanks to the sugar monopoly. (England was kind of crazy about sugar during the eighteenth century, in part because of the booming trade in tea.) Check out [this](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/British_Empire#Americas.2C_Africa_and_the_slave_trade) for more background information.
> 
> [Port Royal](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siege_of_Port_Royal_%281710%29), one of the key campaigns of Queen Anne's War, which most Americans today know nothing about.
> 
> At the time of this fic, France and England both have claims to parts of what is now modern-day Canada, which I interpret as some kind of joint-custody agreement, because Canada is totally the child of a divorced couple.
> 
> ...the part about English homesteads does, of course, completely ignore the indigenous populations wiped out and kicked off to make room for the new immigrants. _Oh England._ But the whole problematizing-colonization thing is another fic, and thus I'm not inclined to go too deeply into the issue here.
> 
> As far as I know, there was nothing significant going on between England and France in July in Paris in 1729, but it _was_ one of the few times during the eighteenth century that they were allies and not at war. (This fic isn't set in Barcelona, like the original was, because England and Spain had no such similar period of friendliness.)


End file.
